The Perks of Being a Victim
by Wisteria22
Summary: A gift for LonelyThursday. John is hired by Moriarty to monitor Sherlock, as a threat to newly appointed government official Mycroft. At Jim's order, John will have to kill Sherlock-but can he do so after falling in love with the strange teenager? Assassin!John, Teen!Lock!
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sighed, staring at the giddy girls who were throwing a water bottle around. The tallest in the group screamed, throwing it wildly behind her. It narrowly missed a window, only to be caught by a mousy-faced girl—Molly Hooper, he recalled.

He hated this boarding school—it might have been one of the finest in the world, yet it physically sickened him. Half of the students hailed from America, the other half from England. A Revolutionary War threatened to break out every major holiday.

One of the girls screamed, drawing his attention back. A girl with jet black hair swooped in, grabbing the water bottle with ease. She winked at them, feinting a throw to the right, only to throw it straight towards Sherlock.

 _Damn it, Renny!_ He frowned sharply, setting down his book, and he grabbed the water bottle from the air.

Or rather, he attempted to.

Instead, it eluded his grasp, hitting the pavement behind him. The girls continued to giggle, with the youngest of the group racing towards it. She brushed past him without a trace of apology, and then she lobbed it back towards Molly.

"You should be more careful," Sherlock frowned sharply, picking up his book and pulling his coat back on.

He'd go retreat to the library, where he would be free of this sort of activity. The silly games only served to make the mind wilt—only books and puzzles were of any use to him. His teachers would often admonish him, wishing that he would study their classes with the same intensity that he studied the story of Kate Warne, or Alan Turing.

But none of their classes mattered—the information was useless, and quite frankly, completely _boring_.

"Aww, come on, Holmes!" the girl with dark hair—Renny—teased. She came bounding up to him, a single braid at the front of her face, with the rest of it left down. Her blue eyes were keen and mysterious, glinting with hidden knowledge.

Renny was the only one that he could tolerate at this school. She was the only one who wasn't a complete and utter idiot.

"Irene," Sherlock smirked. "Tired of wasting brain cells on them?"

Renny wrinkled her nose. "You know I hate that ghastly name—it's dreadful. It makes me sound like some sort of helpless flower…"

Sherlock chuckled a bit. "Aren't you?"

Renny rolled her eyes, punching him in the shoulder. He pretended it didn't hurt, but Renny had a vicious right hook. The pair then proceeded to walk to the library, kicking their feet slightly on the ground before entering.

It was fairly quiet, with most of the children off enjoying their last day of freedom. Most of the students had moved in a few days ago, yet classes would begin tomorrow. For now, it was all about relaxing, and denying that school would have to begin once more.

The librarian gave them the side eye, yet Sherlock and Renny marched back towards the farthest corner of the library. No one else would go disturb them there. The couches they always lounged on were open, and without any ceremony, Renny flopped on one.

"Care to join me?" Renny teased, wiggling her eyebrows.

Sherlock laughed derisively. He took his friend in, looking at the dark shadows on her eyes and the way she tugged down on her sleeves.

"You've been using again," Sherlock frowned. "You said you quit."

"You said the same," Renny mused, picking at her fingernails a bit. "We both like the thrill too much to stop."

Renny chuckled, patting the seat cushion on the other couch lazily. Sherlock sat down mechanically, pulling out his favorite novel— _the Adventures of Sherringford Hastings_ by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It continued to inspire him, with promises of a life better than a dead-end government job.

"So, Dad got hired to teach here," Renny mused, popping a stick of gum into her mouth.

Sherlock didn't respond, staring at the book. There was an illustration of the author, and he frowned. It took him only a few minutes to deduce the author—he was given to pranks, yet ashamed of his works. He had no desire to be known for them-he would rather they were forgotten.

It made Sherlock mildly uncomfortable, but he shoved the feelings away. His brother, a newly appointed government official, had been quite clear.

Feelings were not to be tolerated—they would only cause pain. Nothing good could come of them.

Renny sighed a bit, picking at her fingers again. "He's teaching drama and choir—which means he expects me to perform this year."

"You always perform," Sherlock muttered absently, opening up his novel.

"Not when my dad is in charge," Renny groaned. "I don't even like theatre—he has this idea that I'll grow up to be an opera singer or something."

Sherlock chuckled, glancing up from his novel. Renny was quite beautiful, yet both of them had long since made a deal regarding their friendship. It was too dangerous to be out in the open at this school—it was a death wish to even be suspected as being gay.

And so, she was his beard, and he was hers. It worked out perfectly.

"I do not think that you would ever be an opera singer," Sherlock commented. "Perhaps you'll become a dominatrix?"

"Please," Renny laughed. "I'd be awful at it—I'd start to fall in love with my clients…or accidentally kill them. Toss up between the two."

He grinned slightly, closing the novel and tossing it inside of his bag. Strangely, he was able to imagine Renny dominating people—yet she was so intelligent, the thought of her wasting her talents in the sex industry saddened him slightly.

He hated to see wasted potential.

"You could be a serial killer," he offered, checking his watch. "They'll want us returning to the dormitories soon, I expect."

Renny rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Sherlock, when do we ever do exactly what they want? There's a reason neither of us made prefect all these years—they know what we're like."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking at her pointedly.

"We're troublemakers," Renny boasted. "We're the stuff of nightmares."

"Please," Sherlock laughed a bit, offering a hand to help Renny up. "We're just two assholes who people tell to piss off."

"There's a difference?"

* * *

John woke up, staring into the darkness of his room. It wasn't larger than a closet, and for that, he was grateful. Jim didn't have to see to his living space being livable—at most times, he took pleasure in forcing people to sleep in crates and kennels.

John was a bit of a favorite of Jim's.

Sighing slightly, John hoisted himself to his feet. He pulled on the chain suspended in front of him, and the tiny closet was filled with a dingy light. A small number of pictures were plastered onto the wall, depicting John's childhood. His favorite one was a bit torn on the side—he and Harry were covered in chocolate, running wild in their house.

He smiled a bit, before his eyes fell on the uniform of sorts that he had adopted. Changing quickly, he ended up wearing all black, the material designed to be sleek and silent. It was rather different than what he had been supplied with in the army—there, he had been dressed in fatigues.

There, he had been fighting a tangible war, rather than the invisible war that Jim fought each and every day.

Pulling down on the cord again, the closet was plunged back into darkness. John opened the door to it, hearing the way that it creaked open—he would need to get some oil for it soon.

The outside was far more immaculate than the inside. Shining and pristine, various works of art—mostly stolen—adorned the walls. The very trim was ornate, fitting for a member of royalty.

Jim did love to be in style—it was everything to him.

"John," a tall blonde man nodded, stalking by. He was dressed similarly, with a bag slung over his shoulder—he had an assignment today, evidently.

"Seb," John said, grinning tightly. Seb had been rather kind to John when he joined up. It had kept John out of poverty, due to his failure to be able to hold any sort of job or attend medical school.

The lust for battle was engrained into him, even at the young age of twenty.

"I heard you'll be getting a big one," Seb remarked, tossing a muffin at John. John caught it without blinking, biting into it viciously—he was utterly famished.

"Oh?" John chuckled. "I thought she was getting the next one."

"Oh, no," Seb shook his head. "She's going off to do something with Magnussen—it'll be a miracle if she makes it out in one piece."

Neither of them exactly knew her name—Jim, for whatever reason, seemed to change what he referred to her as every time. They had met her once, a blonde with a narrow face. She raved about cats and baking, yet she was the best shot they had.

"Pity," John sighed. "I rather fancied her—could've been something there."

"In this line of work?" Seb raised an eye. "You've gone mad, kid."

Perhaps he had. Memories of the war would come back to John ever so often, and on occasion, the assignments would bleed into his mind. He never considered himself to be a terrible person—yet in his nightmares, he was a monster.

 _Jim's the monster. Not you. You're a good man._ He shuddered a bit, taking another bite into the muffin.

"Anyways, I'll be seeing you," Seb chuckled. He clapped John on the back and walked off, his gait slightly off. It was no secret that he was nailing the boss.

John couldn't imagine having to please Jim in that sort manner. The man was volatile and vivacious, a walking nightmare. Yet there was something about him that intrigued John, something that had encouraged him to apply to work for Jim closely. All records of John Watson had been modified—he had sold his existence to Jim.

The army captain was listed as dead. Jim had managed to supply a body, and the people of England accepted it without a fight. John had expected for Harry to protest, to claim that it hadn't been her brother on the slab.

There was nothing. The world moved on, refusing to realize that John Watson was indeed alive—and in the service of a criminal mastermind, no less.

Glancing around the expansive room, John saw no sign of anyone else approaching. He grimaced a bit, prepared to go and look for Jim. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, and he forced himself to head down the hallway, heading towards the extravagant master suite.

He knocked, and he waited.

The door opened almost instantaneously, revealing Jim Moriarty. He was dressed in his signature suit, with a tie paired to match. His hair was slicked back and he grinned, a piece of gum sticking out slightly.

"Hello-ooo Johnny!" he laughed, chewing on his gum. "Here for the morning assignment, hmm?"

John nodded, standing still at attention. He mustn't allow Jim to get to him—any reaction would only increase the treatment, and perhaps result in his death. Jim was too unpredictable, a true wild card.

"Excellent," Jim muttered, leaning against the door. "Seb had already come by—he's going to have a bit of fun."

"I saw that, yes," John agreed. "So…Do you have an assignment for me today?"

Jim's grin spread across his face quickly, and he looked like the Cheshire Cat. His eyes seemed to move around oddly, and John felt rapidly more and more nervous.

"Yes, I do, Johnny boy!" Jim laughed. "You'll be taking out some kid—he isn't even eighteen yet, I hope that doesn't compromise your morals…"

John knew that it wasn't an option.

"Of course not," he smiled thinly. "I'll take pleasure in doing this for you, sir."

Jim nodded. "Good, good…Now, I have a bit of business to take care of, and then I'll give you more information. For now, get packed—you won't be staying in your closet much longer."

* * *

Mycroft glanced around his new office, grinning internally. At the age of twenty-eight, he was the youngest person to ever hold this position. His parents, unfortunately, did not seem to understand what a great honor this was—they insisted that he leave work to take them to the cinema, and other ordinary activities.

He sighed, checking his watch—at any moment, his younger brother would begin his first day of classes. He smirked a bit, glad to be done with the bane that was a boarding school education.

There was a rap at the door, and Mycroft straightened instantly. He checked over his brand new suit, ensuring that nothing was out of place—he had to look impressive, fierce, and immaculate.

"Enter!" Mycroft called out, his voice sounding slightly hoarse.

The door opened, and a well dressed man walked inside. Mycroft recognized the designer of the suit instantly—it was Westwood. The man grinned a bit mischievously, as if he had been caught in the middle of a criminal offense.

"Mr. Mycroft Holmes," the man said, a hint of reverence in his voice. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure before."

Mycroft nodded, narrowing his eyes slightly. He held out a hand for the young man. "You haven't."

The man grinned, seemingly more and more ecstatic by the moment. "You'll become familiar with me—Professor James Moriarty."

"Professor," Mycroft nodded, shaking the man's hand. He let go, gesturing towards a chair. The man obliged, yet sat on it strangely, as if it was a throne.

"Please, call me Jim," the man laughed. "All my friends do."

"Jim," Mycroft said, sitting down in his own seat. "What brings you here?"

Jim laughed again, as if Mycroft had said something incredibly funny. "Oh, just a matter of introductions—we're going to get to know each other, you and I…"

Mycroft frowned, staring at him. Alarm bells were going off in his head, yet he remained still, waiting for the scenario to unfold further. It would be in his best interest to be proven wrong once.

"And why exactly would that be?" Mycroft questioned.

"One of my men is at your brother's school," Jim explained, lounging back further in the chair. "If you do something I don't like, your brother will die—his name is Sherlock, isn't it?"

Mycroft didn't reply. He sat still, drinking in the silence. His brows furrowed and Jim laughed again, a laugh that was starting to get onto Mycroft's nerves.

"Thought so," Jim bragged. "So, shall we make a toast to our new working relationship, hmm?"

He had no clear reason to suspect that Jim wasn't telling the truth. Deductions floated in and out of his mind, as he stared him over. It took him less than a minute to realize the horrifying truth.

Sighing a bit, Mycroft grabbed the scotch and poured it out into two glasses, prepared to make his deal with the devil.


	2. Chapter 2

The headmaster frowned a bit, peering over the desk at John. He was rather short, hardly taller than his desk—and yet, he managed to command the respect of his students. None of them dared to cross him.

"John Watson?" he questioned, glaring accusingly at the young man sitting across from him.

John nodded, flinching slightly—it had been Jim's idea. He had laughed on and on about how, saying that it was the perfect alias. Yet it mandated fear and paranoia, at the idea that someone there would recognize him for whom he used to be.

Squaring himself a bit, John stared at the headmaster.

"I am Headmaster Charles Milverton," the headmaster nodded. He smiled scornfully at John for a moment, fiddling with a paperweight in front of him. "I trust you realize the strings your father had to pull in order to ensure your enrollment here."

John nodded again, stiffly recalling the details of the identity. Jim had elected to be the official parental contact for John—a lie that wasn't too far from the truth. And in case of an emergency, Sebastian had been identified as John's brother, a respectable business owner in America.

Headmaster Milverton sighed a bit. "You aren't a talkative young man, are you John?"

"Not at all," John smiled faintly. "Now, erm…You said that I would be assigned to an empty dormitory, yes?"

The headmaster shook his head, drawing attention to his absurd mustache. It was thin and narrow, more fitting of a dictator than a professor. "We've assigned you to room 221B—you'll be rooming with Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

John swallowed thickly. He had studied the photos of Sherlock on the way here. The first thing that had struck him was how gorgeous the teen was. The curly hair drew the eye, and there was something ethereal about the gaze.

Yet most importantly, John could see vulnerability—he was broken, damaged goods.

"And my courses?" John asked. He already knew them—Jim had arranged for him to share them all with Sherlock. It was his job to never leave Sherlock's side, and to always be poised to snap his beautiful neck.

Headmaster Milverton reached into his drawer with his grubby hands, pulling out a fresh, clean sheet of paper. He handed it over to John without any sort of ceremony, only gesturing vaguely at the room numbers scribbled down all over the page.

"Now, Mr. Watson," the headmaster coughed. "Tell me about your last school—let me know a little bit about you, eh?"

John blinked a bit, before nodding. Just by reading the body language of the old headmaster, he could tell he wanted nothing more to do with John. It was all formality, mere window dressing.

"I'd rather not say, sir," John laughed a bit. "It would ruin the mystery."

The headmaster shook his head. "You best keep on your toes, Mr. Watson—nothing gets past me."

"Of course," John stated kindly, rising from the chair. His school uniform scratched against him, and he squirmed slightly, pulling at the collar on it. Abandoned at the floor was his bag, stuffed with books and paper—items that he had no intention of actually using.

He wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea of going through school again.

"Good," the headmaster barked. "Now, get your bag and get out of my sight, Watson."

* * *

In room 221B, Sherlock was stretched out on the floor, the room illuminated with darkness. He never bothered to turn the lights on, instead preferring to strain his eyes to decipher the writing on the page. It would serve him later on in life, he claimed.

"Fascinating," he murmured to himself, turning the page of his book.

It was a detailed look at death in the American Civil War, detailing the various methods of body disposal and the eventual emergence of a policy as what to do with the corpses. It was all he had to read, having finished all of the _Sherringford Hastings_ novels that the library could provide.

 _Might as well beg Mycroft for a few,_ he sighed, grumbling a bit to himself. He threw the book aside, hearing the paper flop and bend as it hit the wall. Reaching for his phone, he slid it open, holding it above his head.

 _Need more Sherringford books. ASAP. –SH_

His phone vibrated a moment later. Smirking, Sherlock glanced at his brother's response—Mycroft had become more and more responsive lately. Sherlock likened it to his increased protectiveness, due to Sherlock being at school all alone, out of the reach of his melon headed interference.

 _Ask Father Christmas then. –MH_

Sherlock frowned, rolling onto his stomach. He propped himself up on his elbows, typing furiously away at the small padded keys.

 _Don't be absurd. Get me some books or I'll have a scene. –SH_

It took less than a minute for Mycroft to reply.

 _Fine. Behave yourself. –MH_

Sherlock smirked slightly, before tossing the phone across the room. It hid the wall, yet he wasn't concerned in the slightest—the phone had proven to be indestructible so far.

And at that same moment, he heard something far more interesting—someone was walking down the hallway, heading towards this very room, dragging something heavy behind him. Straining his ears, Sherlock frowned a bit, hoping that he wouldn't be forced to have a roommate.

His roommates were always dreadful, and they never allowed him to room with Renny. The school board was convinced the two of them would go at it like rabbits—a behavior that confounded Sherlock.

A key was inserted into the lock of his door, and Sherlock watched as the doorknob turned slowly. Light crept in, eliminating the cave like feel of the room. Jerking back a bit from the brightness, Sherlock squinted up at the intruder.

It was a strong man—couldn't have been any younger than twenty years old—and horror was etched into his face. Sherlock's eyes swept over him, noting each feature about the young man—he was in some sort of service, and isolated.

"Hi, I'm John," the serviceman said awkwardly, coughing a bit. "I'm your new roommate."

 _Roommate?_ Sherlock frowned, not bothering to move from his position on the floor. _Seems more like a hit man, but…No hit man would be so stupid as to live with their target._

"You're an idiot," Sherlock announced, sitting up from his position on the floor. "I sleep on the left side. You'll have the right side. If you must masturbate or have sex, do try to be quiet about it—I like to think."

John frowned a bit. "Sorry?"

 _Held back, potentially? Ran away and enlisted underage?_

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit. "It's quite simple. We'll get along unless you traverse to my side of the room—and then, we'll have a problem."

"I…," John paused, seemingly at a loss for words. "You haven't even told me your name."

"You know it already," Sherlock smiled knowingly. "Does your brother know that you completed military service already?"

John's jaw dropped, and Sherlock blossomed with pride. There was a terrified glint in John's eyes as he almost ran to his bed, pushing his bag to the floor in front of him. He glanced around the room, in the manner a trapped animal looks for any route of escape.

"I won't tell," Sherlock muttered, picking up his book from the floor. "It's a waste of my time to get you caught—I prefer to keep this as leverage."

Smirking a bit, Sherlock heard his phone vibrate twice— _Renny._ He chuckled a bit, realizing that she must have already known about his new roommate, and probably wanted all of the details on him.

He glanced over at John, seeing him calmly unpack his bags, despite his identity being pulled apart. When he bent over, Sherlock turned slightly red.

 _Perhaps having a roommate won't be so bad after all…_

* * *

The halls of the school were filled with students, with the younger ones sporting tear stained faces. They bustled around wildly, in an attempt to find their classes. Sherlock and Renny wrinkled their noses, holding hands as they walked down the hall.

It was part of their required handholding time—otherwise, people would begin to suspect that the relationship was indeed fake. And at a boarding school, gossip traveled quickly. No one had anything else to do.

Luckily, they had most of their classes together this year. It hadn't always been the case, and both of them detested the thought of working on group projects with other people.

"Imbeciles everywhere," Sherlock sighed, sweeping into the physics room. Renny followed him, tugging a bit on her fingerless gloves, in order to get some of the wrinkles to leave.

The professor was already there, busying himself with writing various symbols on the board in a looping handwriting. In a glance, Sherlock already deduced the very first unit—kinematics.

"Not everyone can be brilliant," Renny chuckled. "Though it would be rather divine—brilliance is rather attractive."

"Says the sapiosexual," Sherlock retorted, flopping dramatically down into a seat. It creaked a bit, swinging forwards and backwards, before Sherlock stabilized it with his feet.

Renny rolled her eyes, taking her seat gracefully next to him. "I like what I like—I shouldn't be blamed for having good taste."

Her eyes drifted away from Sherlock, finding a girl with bright red hair. Winking at her, the girl blushed, yet motioned slightly down towards her pockets.

"Got one," Renny grinned, pulling out her phone to rapidly send a text. "I assume you don't mind, O Boyfriend?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have no protest," he muttered, glancing backwards as the last few students entered the room.

John Watson rushed in, hurrying down the rows. He headed towards the pair, yet Renny slid her backpack slightly into the aisle. For whatever reason, John failed to notice it, tripping and flying down the remainder of the rows, only stopping at the bottom of the classroom.

Wincing a bit, John rose to his feet, collapsing into a nearby chair. He favored his right leg when he walked.

"Twisted his ankle," Renny chuckled a bit. "Now you'll thank me later, when you're screwing him."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her. "How do I profit from his injury?"

"You can be his knight in shining armor, of course," Renny grinned widely. "And he's got to be gay, if he's at this place—and it's obvious when you look at him as well."

He rolled his eyes, pulling out his notebook and setting it in front of him. Yet his eyes were indeed trained to the blonde head at the front row, whom the eccentric professor was conversing with. At one point, John nodded at his leg, and the professor bit his lip sympathetically.

"It isn't twisted—it's broken," Sherlock said.

"Even better," Renny replied, pulling out her own notebook.

Pulling his glance away from John proved to be difficult, though possible. The professor vacated his position next to John and returned to the front of the room, writing his name on the blackboard.

"Good morning, class!" the professor announced cheerily. "I'm Mr. Smith, and I'll be your professor for this year."

His hair stuck up at a variety of angles, the shade a bit darker than John's dirty blonde. He clicked his tongue while he talked, as well as gesturing far too much—it was almost tiring to watch him, to keep track of his each and every movement.

"Now, physics, physics, physics…" Mr. Smith paused a bit, glancing down in front of him. "Oh! Right! Attendance. I almost forgot."

He chuckled a bit, turning his back. In that moment, the redheaded girl quickly jumped out of her seat, sliding into the one next to Renny.

"Elsie," Sherlock greeted coldly.

Elsie grinned awkwardly a bit. "Sherlock. I'll beat you again this year, I 'spect."

Sherlock gritted his teeth slightly. Elsie was in the same year as he was in most things, with the exception of mathematics. And yet, the school continued to award her the highest academic achievement awards.

It drove Sherlock mad, even if he knew it was a matter of ambition—Elsie couldn't stand losing.

"You can choose to believe that," Sherlock mumbled, only half paying attention to Mr. Smith as he called out dozens of names.

Elsie giggled a bit, squeezing Renny's hand. "I'm glad you're letting me date your girlfriend, Holmes."

"So am I," Sherlock snorted. "I do a terrible job at it, as she loves to remind me."

The girl's grin only widened further, and her freckles became more prominent. Sherlock averted his gaze, hardly bothering to respond when Mr. Smith called out his name. Renny squeezed his hand comfortingly, before pulling out a few pieces of gum, and distributing them to Elsie and him.

"Right," Mr. Smith grinned. "Looks like we're all here—now, where was I?"

"Physics, physics, physics…?" a sullen kid blurted out, their voice void of life and passion.

Mr. Smith spun on his heel, acting like a hyperactive puppy. "Right! So, if William jumps off a building, why does he fall?"

Sherlock frowned a bit. _Is he having us do problems with death?_

A hand shot up, and Mr. Smith nodded, pointing at them as if he was pointing at a fan in a rock concert.

John cleared his voice, before standing up timidly, putting all of his weight onto his left leg. "Gravity, professor—it pulls William down towards the pavement, causes him to smash his head and die."

"Correctamundo!" Mr. Smith cheered, clapping his hands together enthusiastically. "Now, if William's friend James jumps off as well, at the same time, and at the same speed, who hits the pavement first?"

 _He's insane. The parents will go mental when they find out._ Yet Sherlock smiled a bit, standing up without bothering to raise his hand.

"They hit the pavement at the same time," Sherlock called out, his voice ringing throughout the room. "And for a few moments, they are still alive, living in painful agony…Once that is done, the police will be notified, and they will wonder why two boys jumped off a roof—they will conclude it was suicide, when it was homicide."

Mr. Smith chuckled a bit. "This isn't forensics, but yes—what is your name?—that is correct."

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock boasted, taking his seat again. "The one and only."

Renny hit him lightly, yet Sherlock only smirked more. Everyone was gazing towards with, their faces a mix of horror and fascination. Only one person refused to turn and look—John.

Sherlock frowned, sinking into his seat a bit. The attention didn't seem to be nearly as amusing as it had been before.


End file.
